


Demons on Fleet Street

by until_the_earth_is_free



Series: The Not-So-Fluffy Adventures of a Manipulative Cannibal and His Unstable Pet [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Sweeney Todd (2007)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Sweeney Todd, Angst, Cannibalism, Dark Abigail, Hallucinations, M/M, Murder Husbands, Nightmares, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 19:47:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 16,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/until_the_earth_is_free/pseuds/until_the_earth_is_free
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham is released from prison after being wrongfully accused of killing his daughter.<br/>Hannibal Lecter is a pie-maker who works in Will's old barber's shop and offers Will his old room back.</p><p>Love and cannibalism happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Raisedyoulikeaphoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raisedyoulikeaphoenix/gifts).



> After being personally offended that there was not a Hannibal / Sweeney Todd crossover on AO3 yet, I decided to write one.
> 
> Be the change you want to see in the world.

 

 

It had been 5 years since Will Graham had been in London. The air was considerably heavier than what he had remembered and the streets were even filthier. Still, he had already considered the fact he might have a romanticised view of the city after being imprisoned in the worst kind of Hell, and so he was not overly displeased at this discovery.

When he approached his old barbershop, Will had thought that he would feel something. Whether it was relief or disappointment, that would be revealed to him shortly, but he hadn't anticipated the fact that, when the familiar, grey peeling paint became visible, Will Graham would feel nothing at all.

He supposed he'd run out of energy to feel anything during his incarceration.

Coming closer to his old shop, it became apparent that someone had redecorated it and turned it into a pie shop. He had expected this: 5 years was normally too long for a building to be out of use, even one that had been supposedly owned by a killer. Through the gloomy window, he could only make out a vague silhouette of a man, like a shadow suspended on dust.

Since he had absolutely nowhere else to go, he opened the door.

The inside of the shop was about as dingy as its exterior. There were a few rustic-looking wooden tables and benches dotted around the walls, a large working-table near the centre of the room and a small open oven at the back, out of which the man was extracting a tray of pies.

At the sound of the bell rattling against the door, the pie-maker turned around and smiled enigmatically at his only customer.

"Welcome," he greeted, in a foreign accent, arranging the pies on a plate on the working-table. "What will be your order today, sir?"

"Uh, actually I wanted to talk to the owner of the place," Will replied, feeling guilty he wasn't bringing any business to the miserable shop.

"That would be me," the man replied, stretching out a flour-dusted hand for Will to shake. "Hannibal Lecter, owner of The Pie Hole. However, I must insist on giving you something to eat. The shop is regularly open for customers, but my kitchen is always open for personal callers. Please, follow me."

Lecter then picked up the plate of pies and walked into a room to the right of the shop, holding the door open for Will with the tip of his surprisingly well-polished shoe. This installation had certainly not been around when Will had owned the shop, and left him wondering whether Lecter still had the room upstairs, where Will used to live.

After the pie-maker had drawn up a chair for his guest, placed the plate of pies on a rickety table and sat down himself, Will asked,

"so, how long have you had this shop for?"

"Almost... 5 years now," Lecter replied. Then, gesturing to the food, "please, help yourself."

Will obliged and took a bite out of one of the mincemeat ones.

"Who did you buy it from?" he asked, trying not to sound too nosy.

"I think it was a judge. Or perhaps a lawyer. I shall have to go into my files for a name though."

"Oh no, that's alright," Will hastened, taking another bite from the pie, which was really quite good. "But, uh, do you use the room upstairs?"

"No... Many people have informed me that it is still haunted by the ghost of the previous inhabitant's daughter."

Will grimaced.

"Do you believe in ghosts, Mr Lecter?"

"I believe that my customers believe in ghosts and so, for their sake, I have left that room alone," Lecter answered. "But, I must ask, why all the questions?"

Will hesitated, staring at the shabby bed in the far corner of the room.

"Well," he began. "Have you been following the Chesapeake Ripper case recently?"

"Yes, I have," Lecter said, slowly.

Will sighed.

"Then, you'll be aware that the previous owner of this shop, Will Graham, has been released from prison recently when new evidence irrefutably linked the death of his daughter with the Chesapeake Ripper cases, which he had not committed," Will mumbled, now focussing on Lecter's hand, which had been straying distressingly close to a knife on the table.

"You're Will Graham," Lecter confirmed, his voice rather distant, as if trying to ascertain whether he looked like the man from the newspaper pictures.

Will nodded, terrified that the pie-maker still believed that he was a killer.

"Would you mind if I still worked and lived here?" Lecter asked, his hand dropping back into his lap, causing a part of Will's mind to collapse with relief.

"I'm sorry?"

"The shop was taken from you unfairly," the other man elaborated. "But I doubt the authorities were so generous as to compensate all your lost assets for you to buy the shop back from me. However, might I suggest that you stay upstairs and set up your barber's there?"

"Seriously? Are you actually being serious?"

"Yes," said Lecter, looking quite amused.

"That would be perfect. Are you sure?"

"Yes," repeated Lecter, his smile growing.

Will didn't want to push his luck by explaining exactly what sorts of things he had expected he would have to do to have a place to stay and so he simply took out the paperwork given to him by the warden to show to Lecter, thereby confirming his identity.

"Thank you so much, Mr Lecter, I-"

"No worries, Will," Lecter interrupted smoothly, examining the forms. "This was merely the polite course to take."

Will gaped. If giving a complete stranger and a convicted murderer a place to stay and work was polite, what did the man do when he was feeling generous?

"And, please, Will," Lecter added, looking up at his new house-mate. "Call me Hannibal."

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn more about Will's past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this isn't fluffy at all.  
> Sorry, guys, I lied.
> 
> WARNINGS FOR VIOLENCE.

 

 

The upstairs room was, as Lecter had promised, mostly untouched, with the two narrow beds on either side of the room and the chest of Will's old belongings in one corner. However, it seems that all the barber's equipment had been moved up from the main shop and stacked in a neat pile behind the door.

His old dressing-mirror and chair had, thankfully, disappeared.

As Will rummaged through his old possessions, mostly consisting of musty clothes and a few cracked picture frames of his daughter, he wondered why Lecter hadn't sold any of this junk or even just thrown it all away.

Mentally adding another point to the ever-growing list of why he was indebted to Hannibal Lecter, Will changed into his now curious-smelling nightshirt and dragged his quilt from the chest onto his old bed. It was quite early for him to be in bed and he could still hear the clattering of kitchen equipment downstairs, but he hadn't wanted to impose on Lecter's space for any longer than necessary and there really wasn't anything for him to do up here but sleep.

He squirmed for a minute or so on his bed, finding the most comfortable position on his side, facing away from the wall.

It was when Will was closing his eyes that he heard it.

Someone was knocking on the door. Someone familiar.

Five rhythmic, confident knocks.

Abigail's knock.

_"Do you believe in ghosts, Mr Lecter?"_

Eyes now wide open, Will glanced at the door and found he couldn't see anyone through the glass. He was definitely not prepared to get up and open the door to investigate further.

Just his imagination.

Heart still pounding unnaturally fast, he tried to relax his shoulders and, just to be safe, tucked his toes underneath the blanket.

"Mr Graham?"

And there was Abigail, perched on the edge of her bed, swinging her legs like she always did with that expression she always made when she wanted something from him.

_"What is it, Abigail?"_

_"Could I please go out tonight?" she had asked with a coy smile. "A few others are going out to the river and I thought, if I-"_

_"Go," he had said, with a melodramatically weary voice. "Leave your old man and have fun."_

_She had smiled even wider at that, teeth and everything._

Oh, how Will had missed her smile.

_"Thanks, Mr Graham!" she had chirped, despite the fact both of them knew he always would let her go. "I'll be back by midnight, I swear."_

_She had always been so loyal to her promises._

_It was so odd when Will had woken up the next day to her empty bed. Wrong, even. Cursing his daughter's foolishness and wondering with whom she had gone off with the previous night, he had dressed and opened the door out to the balcony, accidentally hitting his daughter's legs as he did so._

_Abigail had been propped up against the bars of the banister, eyes empty of emotion, blood effortlessly dripping from a slit in her throat into the wood._

She was still smiling.

_When the peelers had arrived, Will had still been standing at the doorway, unable to turn away from the hideous mess that had used to be his daughter._

_They had told him she had been killed with a straight razor._

As the memories flooded back into Will's mind, so did the blood trickle from the ghost Abigail's neck until his mind was numb from feeling and all he could do was watch and all he could see was red.

_"Do you believe in ghosts, Mr Graham?"_

~O~

"Good morning, Will!" called a merry, accented voice from beneath the balcony. "Would you like some help up there?"

Will stopped his scrubbing and immediately the sensation came back into his hands, knuckles burning and splotchy from the lye in the soap.

"I'm alright!" he shouted back. "But thank you!"

Continuing his thorough cleaning process, Will turned around in his crouched position to see Lecter standing at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in a black waistcoat and a red puff tie, head cocked to one side.

"On the contrary, dear Will," Lecter said, quieter now. "You've been scrubbing the same spot for the past three hours. I think it's as clean as it's going to get."

Oh.

"Do you want to come downstairs for breakfast?" Lecter continued smoothly. "There are a few pies left over from yesterday that I would otherwise throw away."

"Sure," Will said. "I mean, yes please."

Then, tossing the rag he had been using into the bucket, he stood up, wiped his wet hands on his already wet trousers and walked shakily down the stairs.

~O~

"Do you just live off pies, then?" asked Will, taking a huge, crumby bite from his slice.

Lecter chuckled, brushing his hands together to remove any excess flour on his palms.

"Just about. Meat prices are extortionately high and I don't have many customers."

"What bull," muttered Will.

"I'm sorry?"

Embarrassed, Will looked up to apologise for his language, but saw that the pie-maker was smiling good-naturedly.

"About the price of meat or my utter lack of customers?" Lecter asked, his eyes glinting with humour.

"No, I mean, your pies are just really good," Will mumbled awkwardly, causing Lecter to laugh again and his own stomach to swell slightly, and not just from the food.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tada!  
> I stand true to my summary: love and cannibalism.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The becoming of Murder Husbands: step one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I've been absolutely overwhelmed by all your lovely comments on the first two chapters.  
> I've actually run out of ways to say thank you to all of them!  
> My readers are honestly the best.  
> Fun fact: apparently, in the 1800s, the word "leg" was inappropriate and had to be substituted by the word "limb".

 

 

"Excuse me, gentlemen," said a voice from the doorway.

The two men looked up from their table to see a portly, bearded man standing over their table. Pulling away from Will, Lecter replaced his relaxed smile with a more controlled, professional one.

"Welcome back to The Pie Hole, Mr Gideon," he greeted, standing up and shaking the man's hand. "What'll it be today?"

Taking off his hat, the customer gave his order and sat down in Lecter's vacated seat next to Will while the pie-maker busied himself with rolling out the dough on the work-table.

"Abel Gideon," he introduced, sticking out his ring-studded hand.

"Will," he replied, reluctant to divulge his surname in case he had been following the papers.

"Will is an excellent barber," Lecter said as he put the tray of fresh pies in the oven. "I am sure he will give you a free, clean shave in his shop upstairs if you tell your friends about his services."

He smiled at Will, as if very pleased about thinking up this offer.

"Sure," said Will, flashing a small, grateful smile back at the pie-maker. "I'll just go up and get the room ready and you can come up when you're finished here." Then, at a strange loping half-jog, he hurried upstairs to dust down the barber's chair and to clean his straight razors.

When he had pulled out all his old equipment and made his tools suitably hygienic, he threw all his personal items back into the chest so the room would have some degree of professionalism. It felt weird, but ultimately comforting to be back where he belonged, where he was most in control.

Not wanting to go downstairs and rush his first customer in five years but also not entirely sure what to do in the meantime, Will sat in the barber's chair, fiddling with a razor and staring through the skylight at the dismal London fog.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.

Will waited for half a second for the fifth knock that never came, before blowing out a sigh of relief and getting up to answer the door.

Gideon strode in, purposeful but shrewd, as if slightly suspicious of this informal barber's shop and this stranger in trousers with wet knees.

"If you would please take a seat, sir." Will gestured towards the leather barber's chair, where Gideon propped himself, legs planted firmly on the footrest.

After smoothly applying the unfortunately stale but still usable shaving cream over his customer's face, the barber leaned over his table of tools to find a razor. He shuffled through his various equipment, almost slicing open his hand on a particularly sharp pair of scissors, but couldn't find any of his razors.

Will turned around to his customer, patting his pockets and about to apologise for the delay, when he saw the lost object.

It was being held against Gideon's throat by his dead daughter.

And she was still smiling at Will when the first spurt of blood splattered his glasses.

~O~

Lecter was in the kitchen, reading a new recipe book, when he heard footsteps thunder down the stairs and Will Graham burst into the room, eyes wide and sweat glittering his forehead.

"What-"

"I need your help, Hannibal," Will said shortly, looking straight into the pie-maker's eyes for the first time since they had met.

"Show me," replied Hannibal, business-like, as he followed the trembling barber up the stairs, which still hadn't dried from that morning and onto the balcony.

With a shuddering breath, Will opened the door, to reveal a very confused-looking Gideon with shaving cream still on his face.

"What happened?" asked Hannibal, keeping his face as neutral as possible to try to understand what his house-mate was seeing.

"I don't know," stammered Will, carefully avoiding looking at the barber's chair. "I turned around and Abigail had just taken a razor and-"

"Abigail, your daughter?"

Gideon looked like he wanted to get up and run out of the shop as quickly as he could, but Hannibal flickered to him a small squint of the eyes, to reassure him that he was trying to calm his clearly insane friend down.

"Yes, I know she's dead," Will muttered, tears escaping his bright blue eyes. "But now so is he and-"

"Will," Hannibal said, his voice deep and quiet with authority. "I want you to go downstairs and attend to the shop. I will sort this out."

"But-" Will started, desperately trying not to let his friend risk going to prison and now absolutely certain that he wasn't hallucinating and that Gideon was truly dead.

"Go."

~O~

When Hannibal returned to the shop three hours later, no customers had arrived yet and Will was sitting at a table, restlessly stimming one hand against his hip and thoroughly rubbing his glasses against his shirt with the other.

"I hope you don't mind that I temporarily used your travelling bag to dispose of our friend," Hannibal said, the epitome of calm.

Will jumped, startled by the voice, and quickly replaced his glasses on his nose.

"I will clean it though: do not worry," he continued.

"There's no need for that," Will replied, staring at a burn-mark in the table, his left hand still anxiously flapping.

"Well, unless you're planning on reusing the bag in the same way," the pie-maker replied, flicking up a half-smile at the humour.

"No!" Will shouted, standing up and causing the bench he had been sitting on to move backwards with a horrible screech. "How could you joke about something like this? How can you be so calm?" Then, hurriedly glancing around to make sure no one was there to listen, he whispered angrily, "a man _died_ , Hannibal. I actually killed someone. Aren't you scared? What if I saw Abigail hurt you? What if-"

"Will, please," Hannibal said, putting on his apron. "Believe me when I say you are not going to hurt me."

"What about the police? Someone's going to notice he went missing..."

"Abel Gideon was a lonely man who had no family and very few friends. He came here early this morning, when no one in the street would have seen him enter. This was only his second visit. He was also an incredibly rude individual who made a living off identity theft. In a way, it is better that he is no longer with us."

Will gawked helplessly.

"How could you say something like that?"

"Like what? Saying there are some people on this Earth who don't deserve the life they have? My dear Will, everyone is guilty of something. Some people are guiltier than others. If no one else will bring retribution, why can't we?"

"What are you implying?" demanded Will, taking a step back.

"I am not suggesting you kill anyone else," Hannibal said, his tone reasonable and light. "But I am willing to make sacrifices if you do. And besides," now mixing a stew for a new batch of pies, "did I mention how extortionately high the price of meat is nowadays?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if the characters aren't speaking in 1800s English but if I tried to make them sound old I'd probably screw it up badly so...


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will angsts.
> 
> ((There is a super brief super vague mention of suicide here. I don't think it would upset anyone but just in case, here is your warning.))

_"Did I mention how extortionately high the price of meat is nowadays?"_

Will looked up at the serene expression on the pie-maker's face and swallowed his outraged reply.

"I have to go," he stammered.

If Hannibal had anything to say, the words were lost in the slam of the door behind Will as he ran out into the drizzle and smog.

It was during times like these that Will forgot there were other colours besides grey. All the previously cheery red-brick buildings suffered from a dull overcoat in this weather, like all the hues of a watercolour had blended together to create a soggy mess of grey. As he walked hurriedly through the streets, he caught glimpses of the random Londoners dilly-dallying on a gloomy Friday at noon, reading excerpts from their individual stories in their facial expressions and body language. It was an unusual skill that Will had and he had to keep reminding himself that in the fear that the indiscriminate pedestrians knew from a glance that he was a murderer.

After Abigail's death, it had taken him several months just to placate the part of his mind that entertained the possibility that he had killed his daughter, and even longer for that part to totally disappear.

And now what?

He had actually killed someone this time. A man who had done him no harm. And he had left a witness.

Hannibal was probably informing the coppers now. They might already be searching for Will. They'd hang him for sure- juries were never kind to second-time felons, let alone murderers.

But even while these thoughts were swirling around Will's anxiety-ridden mind, he knew Hannibal wouldn't give him away. The man was obviously well-experienced with crime by the frankly bizarre composure with which he handled the situation. Anyone else would have panicked and called for help.

He wondered why it was his first instinct to ask for Hannibal's assistance in the first place. He knew, of course, that Abigail hadn't killed Gideon and that he needed someone to be his gage for reality.

But it still felt very odd to put so much trust on someone he had only just met, even if that someone had provided a home for Will that he could never hope to repay.

Will stared dismally at the murky water of the Thames from Blackfriars Bridge, watching the rain hit the surface like restless fingers drumming on a table. The rain was soaking through his shirt, having neglected to put his jacket back on, and he wondered whether he had seriously involuntarily slit someone's throat without getting any blood on himself or whether he was just hallucinating his shirt's whiteness.

At this point, he would believe anything.

And then there was the matter of Hannibal's lucratively cheerful attitude towards death. Forget Will's insanity, Hannibal freely admitted that he didn't think murder was necessarily bad.

Maybe it would just be easier if Will fell into the black river and he would never be indebted to that strange man called Mr Hannibal Lecter.

~O~

When Will returned to the little pie-shop on Fleet Street several hours later, he was startled to see nearly a dozen customers sitting around the shop, eating slices of pastry and talking merrily with one another. It looked like the most business the place had seen in years.

"Will!" Hannibal greeted from his place behind the work-table. "You look utterly drenched. Why don't you dry yourself by the oven? I'll fetch a towel."

Still unable to look the pie-maker in the eye, Will replied quickly,

"no thank you, Mr Lecter. I think I am going to retire to my room for the night."

Hannibal cocked his head to one side curiously, but did not argue. Instead, he turned to his customers and tapped the drawing-pin against the work-table firmly.

When everyone's attention had been seized, he announced,

"welcome, valued guests of the Pie Hole. This young man here is my new neighbour, who runs a very respectable barber's shop upstairs. And, yes, there will be a discount if you use both of our services, starting this Monday. That is all."

Smiling placidly at his house-mate, Hannibal opened the door for and watched as his friend walk up the stairs and back into his cold room.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you really expect a longer chapter with that summary?  
> Patience, young grasshoppers.  
> And don't worry- I have great plans for this fic and I intend to follow them to the bitter end.
> 
> Also, I've just realised that my American readers might be reading all my British slang in an American accent and I'm trying to figure out what that would sound like.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My London geography is so accurate, I kind of want someone to tell me that Fleet Street isn't within walking distance of Blackfriars Bridge or something so I can show off my knowledge.  
> Also, it's like 1am so, if there are spelling errors, I'm so sorry and please forgive me.

 

 

The next week or so passed with as little communication between the barber and the pie-maker as possible. Will had to walk through the pie-shop to leave the building and he swore that he would never say anything but the few terse words required when asked a question or greeted by the extroverted pie-maker. After a few days of this charade, however, Hannibal stopped asking questions and instead fixed his gaze intently on Will, leaving him extremely disconcerted and irritated whenever he had to leave or enter his room.

The barber knew that Lecter was trying to provoke him into starting a conversation and so he fought patience with stubbornness.

If that was the game the pie-maker wanted to play, then so be it.

It was only on New Year's Eve that Hannibal broke the silence. Will had gone out that morning to buy breakfast and was now eating his hard lump of bread at one of the tables in the corner of the Pie Hole. He hadn't been able to afford much else, since he was running out of money and had not yet reopened his barber's shop, despite the confusion of many clients who were asking about a discount for customers of the pie-shop downstairs, and had flat-out refused to eat anything cooked by Lecter after the sudden influx of customers and reduced price of pies the day Gideon had died.

"Will," Hannibal had began, leaning against the door-frame on the other side of the room. "I am truly sorry for what happened last week. Please believe that I was only trying to help and I apologise if I have offended you at all."

There was a strained silence, in which Will realised just how loud he was when he chewed.

"No," he said, staring his lap. "I know you were just being polite. I think I'm just a bit shaken up, that's all." He cracked a hollow smile at the colossal understatement. The hallucinations and night terrors had been getting worse, and had occasionally included Abel Gideon as a guest appearance.

Taking a step forward, Hannibal asked, "as a gesture of good faith, would you let me take you out for a picnic dinner by the river to watch the fireworks tonight?"

It made Will feel incredibly uneasy to become close with a man seemingly so casual about murder. However, if he had to live with a sociopath, he might as well be on good terms with it.

"Sure," he mumbled, and took another bite of the stale roll to hide his discomfort.

~O~

Eleven o'clock that night saw two dark figures, almost imperceptible against the shadowy grass bank, beside one of the Blackfriars Bridge columns. Lecter had packed a tablecloth for them to use as a picnic blanket, for which Will was thankful because there was still a slight crunch of frost on the ground from a few days ago, and a small, efficient basket of neatly wrapped sandwiches.

"No more pies?" asked Will, in a half-joking, half-absolutely-serious incredulous voice.

Lecter laughed, much more freely and loudly than his usual chuckle in this safety of darkness.

"Pies can become rather tiresome after five years," he replied, smoothing a napkin on his lap and reaching into the basket for one of the small, paper packages he had arranged earlier that day.

"Do take a sandwich," he urged Will, having not seen the other man move from his defensive, crouched position on the picnic blanket. After a few seconds of the barber continuing to not move, he sighed and said, "they're just cucumber, cheese and bread."

Hesitating slightly, Will slowly extended his arm to take one of the packages, which he then unwrapped and stared at through the darkness for a few seconds before taking a small, suspicious bite.

If Lecter wanted to comment on his companion's peculiar behaviour, he didn't and instead leaned back against the slope of the bank to stare at the sky, waiting for the fireworks to start. Will followed his lead, now more enthusiastically eating his sandwich after discovering that it was, indeed, just cucumber, cheese and bread and realising he hadn't eaten anything since that morning.

There were several minutes of patient silence, in which there were a few quick intakes of breath when one of the men had been about to say something but then thought better of it.

Then, the first firework went off.

Will had forgotten how _loud_ those things were, and how _bright_ the sky could become at night, glittered by golden dust and artificial stars. There was no escaping the laugh of pure, childish glee that leapt from his mouth when he saw the explosions scintillate through the air, blurred slightly by London smog, and become the strange, scattered brush-strokes of an immense Impressionist painting that was constantly evolving and moving.

"Incredible, isn't it?" murmured Lecter, watching Will out of the corner of one eye while still facing the sky.

Will replied with an intelligible noise of agreement, eyes still transfixed on the heavens and his delighted face lit up by the firework display.

Hannibal was so focussed on watching Will watch the show that he didn't even see what had caused him to gasp in amazement.

"Red! They have red fireworks! How did they do that?" he exclaimed, then looking over to his housemate in excitement. "Did you see it?"

"Yes, they must have used a different chemical for that one," he replied, quietly amused at Will's reaction.

Hannibal Lecter wasn't low enough to notice and smile at how Will had sacrificed a few seconds of time he could have spent watching the display to ask him a question. Nor did he count it as a victory when he saw Will absent-mindedly take another sandwich from the basket.

And he certainly wasn't enormously chuffed that he had caused Will to be so incredibly happy just metres away from where he had decided that night to kill Abigail Hobbes, five years ago.

~O~

"Happy New Year, Will," Hannibal said, a little after midnight, when they were both at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the first floor. "Have a nice night."

Will glanced upstairs to his dark, haunted room and looked back at Hannibal, twisting his hands together like he was procrastinating going up. Hannibal waited in pretence of ignorance for his housemate to say what it was he was hinting at.

"Actually, Hannibal," Will began, rubbing his hands together even more furiously. "Maybe we could stay down here and have a drink or something to celebrate the New Year."

"Of course," the pie-maker replied with a gracious smile and they walked back through the shop and into Hannibal's living quarters. "Would beer suffice?"

"That sounds lovely," Will replied, sitting down in an old wooden chair, trying to stifle a yawn.

After Hannibal had poured them each a glass of beer, he sat down on the stool opposite Will and chinked his mug against his friend's.

A few minutes of companionable silence passed before Will broke it and spoke.

"I haven't had alcohol for over five years," Will mused, tracing the rim of his twice-empty mug with his index finger.

"You might have lost your tolerance for it, then," Hannibal replied, his eyebrows lowering fractionally in concern. "Perhaps it would better if you sleep down here."

"Oh no," Will declared, as insistent as it was possible to be at one in the morning after two beers and a week of night terrors and insomnia. "I couldn't possibly impose..."

"I insist," Hannibal replied, gently pulling Will out of the chair and guiding him to the bed in the corner of the room.

"But-"

"Go to sleep, Will."

And, rather surprisingly considering his recent typical sleep-schedule and his earlier suspicion of a man he had mentally dubbed a 'sociopath', he did.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cannibalsoncannabis.co.vu


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uh, like, Will gets a good night of sleep and finds himself less creeped by Hannibal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have an exam tomorrow? What exam? What? Hahaha...

 

 

Will Graham woke up the next morning to a very peculiar, bittersweet smell. Eyes furrowed and remembering how terribly bright the sun was when one wakes up after dawn instead of staying up practically the entire night watching the world change colour through a skylight, he traipsed out of bed, no wait- Hannibal's bed, and sat down at the small table, the other side of which was already inhabited by Hannibal.

"Good morning, Will," the pie-maker said, pouring his guest some strange black liquid out of a teapot and into the other mug on the table.

Will stared at the dubious black substance in front of him.

"I'm sorry, but what kind of tea is this?"

"Oh no, it's not actually tea," replied Hannibal, his eyes crinkling ever so slightly. "It's a drink called 'hot chocolate'. Try it."

Will raised the mug to his lips slowly, watching Hannibal's smile the entire time. He took a sip.

"So this is hot chocolate," he said in wonder. "No wonder it's so bloody expensive! How in blazes did you get it?"

Hannibal's smile widened.

"I have a machine that makes the powder from the Netherlands. The seeds are quite easy to come by, if you know the right people."

"The Netherlands..." Will mused, trying to remember where on the map that country was. "Is that where you're from?"

Leaning back on his chair, Hannibal replied,

"actually, I am from Lithuania, although I do have cousins in the Netherlands as well as many other places over Europe."

"So, why settle here in this dismal city?" asked Will, feeling peculiarly quaint, having never left England in his life.

"Well, I have sailed the world, beheld its wonders. But, there's no place like London," Hannibal said, raising his mug of hot chocolate.

"There's no place like London," Will echoed in agreement, and they chinked their mugs together.

~O~

It turned out that Will was surprisingly functional when he had slept for an appropriate number of consecutive hours as he had agreed to repaint the front of the pie-shop if Hannibal would lend him enough money to stock up on his barber's equipment. Hannibal was surprised by this burst of mental clarity and productivity after just one night of recuperation and was wondering whether it was a good idea to allow Will to sleep in his room regularly.

However, it would probably be better to let Will sleep back in his old room, just so he was able to review his other option and make the decision himself.

Hannibal was just watching Will carefully outlining the letters for the new sign with neat regularity and fantasising about a terrified version of the man in front of him knocking on his door in the middle of the night because he would rather bear the embarrassment of asking for help than to stay alone with the nightmares, when Will spoke.

"A penny for your thoughts," he called down from his spot at the top of the ladder, focussing on the "P" that he was drawing out, but gesturing with his head so that Hannibal knew most of the attention was on him.

"Pardon?"

"You're standing with a sly smile," Will continued, still not looking at Hannibal. "I want to know what you're pondering down there."

"How do you know what my expression is if you aren't even looking my way?" asked Hannibal, avoiding the question with another one. After all, lying was rude.

"I have a skill in picking up non-verbal cues from my peripheral vision," Will said, climbing down the ladder. "It has been extremely useful keeping me out of trouble in the last five years."

Hannibal did not reply, and instead looked up at the cheery red shop with soon-to-be-painted pencilled letters.

After a few seconds of contemplation, he asked,

"Would you like to paint the letters now or have something to eat first?"

"Dinner would be lovely," replied Will with a smile.

Dinner took the form of a bowl of hot pea-soup and a lump of bread each. Will was not entirely sure how one could make pea-soup taste exotic, but obviously Hannibal had found a way.

"Abigail always loved hot soup on a cold day," Will ruminated, stirring the soup to let it cool. It was easier, perhaps even comforting, to think about Abigail in the brightly lit, windowed shop where there weren't any opportunities for ghosts to conceal themselves in shadow.

Hannibal sipped his soup lightly.

"She was around twenty, correct?" he asked.

"What? Oh no, she was only seventeen. She would pass for twenty though, if it suited her," Will replied, gazing at his bowl of soup wistfully.

"Still," Hannibal remarked. "You look hardly old enough to have a seventeen year-old daughter."

Will smiled ruefully.

"She wasn't my biological daughter," he explained. "Several years back, I needed an assistant in my shop so I went to the workhouse to adopt someone. I thought a girl would be better, as she would have otherwise been more likely to fall into the wrong hands..."

Will faltered. His adoption of that scared but determined little fourteen year-old didn't quite save her from falling into the wrong hands.

"Remarkable," said Hannibal.

"I'm sorry?" Will looked up at the man sitting across the table from him.

"You could have hired almost anyone as your assistant and instead you chose to take in one of the weakest members of society. A stray."

Will smiled hollowly.

"Abigail was many, _many_ things, but she was never weak."

He took another sip of his soup and ended up staying in the shop talking with Hannibal until it was simply too dark outside to finish the sign.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are like amuse-bouches for my muse.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will is getting better.  
> Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the hiatus, but I'm back now and I'm going to update more frequently since I'm on holiday this next week.  
> Hurray!

 

 

 

 

Dr Frederick Chilton had not been planning to have a shave before his dinner party. It was only when he had been wandering around the area in the spare hour or so he had had to himself before he was expected at the party. It was always good to be prepared and come early, so he had decided to amuse himself by wandering through the less fortunate areas within and surrounding Blackfriars. Perhaps this had been an unwise decision, considering his enormous and obvious wealth, but Chilton was in possession of an unusual strain of arrogance that resulted in him believing in his own invincibility.

It was this arrogance that had led him up some rickety stairs and into a dingy barber's shop with forty minutes until he would be declared late to his friend's social gathering.

Dr Frederick Chilton eyed the other two men who were standing in the room: one, who was sharpening a straight blade with jittery hands and the other, who was calmly watching. The set-up seemed rather odd and he started to develop an unfamiliar uneasiness. Naturally, he was quite concerned: one normally would be when noticing the trembling nature of one’s barber’s hands.

Perhaps the skittish fellow was the apprentice to the obviously more controlled partner. But his nature seemed more interesting than mundane nervousness. Chilton recognised this unusual shuddering behaviour as a symptom of acute anxiety, a condition with which he often diagnosed his patients, but there was something more, something bigger in the way the man's eyes darted around the room like a bat in an enclosed room at daylight.

If Chilton had been behind a locked door and a pane of glass back at the lunatic asylum where he worked, he would have tried to provoke the man and observe how he reacted to a certain threat. However, it was probably best to remove the psychiatrist-goggles for now: it was never a good idea to wind up the man with a blade to your throat.

Although it had taken several minutes to prepare for the shave, the actual process was swift and clean, possibly the closest shave Chilton had ever received. Upon leaving, he pressed a small handful of shiny coins into whom he had established was the mentor's hand before tilting his hat to the two gentlemen and carrying on his way.

"Thank you, Dr Lecter," Will said huskily as the pie-maker placed the stack of coins delicately onto the lid of the chest in the corner.

"No worries, Will, this was your hard-earned salary."

"No, I mean, thanks for being here," Will amended, starting to put away his barber's equipment. "I feel much better about this room now."

"Congratulations," replied Lecter, leaving Will unsure whether he was being sarcastic or just speaking as he did in his odd, restrained tone.

"It really says something when one is congratulated on managing not to kill one's client," Will mumbled, raising a laugh from the pie-maker.

"I thought I was the one who made crude jokes about the deaths of others," Hannibal replied in the quick, careful syntax that he used when he was being humorous and Will, unable to find a sufficient verbal response in time, chuckled and only felt slightly disgusted with himself.

There really isn't anything that brings people closer together than a horrifying secret.

~O~

Although Will didn't seem to be hallucinating at all over the next few days, Hannibal still went up every time a customer for the barber's shop wanted to use Will's services to keep an eye on the situation and to make sure the barber was still in the right mental state to be brandishing potential weapons. It was also a useful way of keeping track of Will's mental stability while also influencing it himself.

Will, although he was rather embarrassed by his need for supervision, appreciated Hannibal's presence and started to try to persuade the pie-maker to take a cut of his earnings.

"I have done nothing to deserve this," Hannibal said, sliding the pile of coins back across the table where they were sitting to Will.

"You've given me a place to sleep, about a hundred pies and most of my equipment," Will argued, sliding the coins across to Hannibal's side again.

"Which you have paid back with your company and a newly painted sign out front," the pie-maker finished, with an authoritative tone that marked the end of the argument.

What Will was refraining from mentioning for fear of sounding rude was that he had not seen a single customer come into the Pie Hole and not carry on directly to the barber's shop upstairs in the past week and he was quite concerned about Hannibal's business profits.

In fact, the pie-shop hadn't entertained customers since Gideon's death, when the price of pies had suddenly plummeted.

And then Will pinched himself, hard, because, what the hell, Graham, why would you even think something like that?

Across the table from him, Hannibal was smiling and in those dark eyes Will could almost make out a reflection of Abigail laughing at him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is such a slow-burn fic.  
> It takes a lot of convincing and angsting before Will becomes murder husbands with Hannibal.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will has more nightmares and Hannibal "comforts" him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh i'm really sorry my mental health has been doing some funky things lately and writing has been really hard and i feel like this is a god-awful chapter but i feel so bad about not having not updated for a million years and long story short please don't hate me i promise the next chapter will be better

 

 

_"Mr Graham?"_

_"What is it, Abigail?"_

_"Do you suppose... never mind."_

_Will had looked up from the book he was reading and had pushed his spectacles back up his nose._

_"What is it?"_

_"Well..." she had begun, in the sweet, drawn-out tone she would use when she was about to ask a favour. "Since it's a bank holiday in two weeks and we weren't going to really do anything during the long weekend anyway..."_

_"Where do you want to go?"_ _he had asked with a smile._

_"There's going to be a fair on the pier in Southend-On-Sea," she had announced. "By the sea, Mr Graham, by the sea!"_

_Will had sighed and taken off his glasses to rub his eyes._

_"There isn't really enough money for a beach holiday this year," he had explained, trying to avoid looking at his daughter's crest-fallen face._

_"Oh, no worries," she had chirped, although it was evident that she was disappointed. "I'm sure we can find something to do around London."_

_But it had rained the following the week and the two had stayed inside, playing cards and making up ridiculous back stories for the passersby at the window._

_"See the one in the red coat? She's secretly a spy from China to steal back the opium."_

_"That blond one? In his spare time, he dances for reformed nuns in the Bohemian Quarter."_

"Do you see that one jerking around in his sleep? Absolutely insane! He slit someone's throat, blaming it on his daughter's ghost."

Will jolted awake. His eyes darted over to Abigail's thankfully empty bed and scanned the rest of the room as best he could in the dark. He was alone. Slowly, he raised himself and sat on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, breathing heavily.

"Do you see him?"

Will felt the blood run from his face. Abigail was watching him through the skylight, dead-pale palms against the window and eyes wide with glee at the game. The blood slipping from her throat was almost black in the darkness.

~O~

Hannibal was calculating his monthly accounts in his room when he heard frantic footsteps pound down the stairs and into the Pie Hole, before apparently stopping right outside the door. He cocked his head, smiling serenely as he heard the faint gasps of someone who was feeling self-conscious of the volume of their breathing. A few seconds passed before Hannibal decided to relieve the visitor of the responsibility of knocking, and got up and opened the door.

Will was a skittish mess standing at the doorway, constantly looking over his shoulder, and his hand was flapping with an almost violent conviction at his side. A delicious, skittish mess.

"Will," greeted Hannibal, raising his eyebrows in feigned surprise. "What brings you down here at-" he glanced at the clock on the table, "one in the morning?"

"Can I come in first?" Will asked, wincing slightly, either at the light from Hannibal's room or from the sensitive situation in which he had found himself.

Hannibal stepped away from the door, gesturing to the table, which was currently covered in paperwork, and Will hurried in. As he sat down, resting his elbows on his thighs and his head in his hands, Hannibal busied himself by heating up a kettle of tea.

"For what reason do I owe the-"

"I don't feel safe, Hannibal."

Hannibal raised an eyebrow, but otherwise continued rinsing out the mug he was holding.

"Safe from what?" he inquired.

Will rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm, before running his fingers raggedly through his hair. He looked very different without his glasses, more vulnerable perhaps. More malleable.

"Abigail," Will replied, staring bitterly at the floor. "The dark. Myself."

His voice was getting higher and more frustrated with each suggestion.

"It's getting worse, it's only getting worse, and I can't get away from it, I can't get her to leave me alone and I-

"What's wrong with me?" he gasped, now rocking backwards and forwards on his seat and hugging his arms around his chest.

"William," Hannibal said authoritatively, cutting through the madness with calm control. "Here, drink this."

He handed the mug of tea to Will, who almost looked like he was going to drop it in surprise, before taking a sip and slightly relaxing his shoulders. Hannibal pulled up a stool in front of Will, close enough for their knees to be touching, and leaned forward to touch Will's forehead with the back of his hand.

"You are running a moderate fever," he commented, ignoring Will's flinch at the physical contact. "It would be best if you stayed down here for at least the night."

"Thank you," Will mumbled, the mug in his hand held steady despite the fact his leg was still jiggling in anxiety. "You really shouldn't."

"Shouldn't what?" Hannibal asked, leaning back as far as he comfortably could on a stool.

"You shouldn't be helping me," Will said. "You shouldn't be so nice about this."

"Why?" asked Hannibal, as if he was genuinely confused.

"Because 'this'-" Will gestured in a vague circle around the room, "is my fault. I should deal with my consequences. I _deserve_ this."

Hannibal's eyes flashed with something almost resembling sympathy.

"Will, you have a wonderfully active mind and an incredible sense of perception. We all make choices and have to live with their consequences. Perhaps you ought to stop thinking about your strong imagination as a punishment and more as a talent."

"Some talent," Will snorted. "I now have the ability to scare myself shitless."

Hannibal's lips curled into a serious smile.

"Well, it's very late and you are quite ill. Shall we get some sleep?"

~O~

"Um, so, how do you want to do this?" Will asked, staring at the worryingly narrow bed in the corner of the room.

"We have done this before," Hannibal reminded him, harking back to New Year's.

"Wait- we both managed to fit in that?" Will asked incredulously, flushing a ridiculous colour. For God's sake, he lived in a crowded prison for five years.

"Why don't you slide in first?" suggested Hannibal.

Will nodded and put on a rather stoic expression as he climbed awkwardly under the drab sheets as far as possible to the wall to give the maximum space to his host. Conflicted between facing Hannibal and facing the wall, Will settled for facing the wall, out of respect to the pie-maker's privacy. Having blown out the oil lamp, Hannibal took up a surprisingly small amount of room, considering his imposing presence. However, that did not stop him from lying slightly closer to Will than was absolutely necessary.

"Goodnight, Will."

"Goodnight, Hannibal."

Through the darkness, the pie-maker smiled.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal go on a jolly holiday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who is back on track and nearly over her depressive episode??  
> I am only realising now how ridiculously slow-burn this fic is.  
> Sorry if anyone came here expecting it to be over by now!  
> Ahahahaha...  
> *whispers* Hannigram is happening very soon.  
> I'm so excited to write it!

 

 

 

When Hannibal woke up the following morning, he was pleasantly surprised to see Will sitting at the table already, sipping a mug of what appeared to be leftover tea from last night. Rather embarrassingly on his part, Hannibal was not a naturally early-riser and it may have frustrated him ever so slightly that Will, in this instance, had more control over his body than the ever-collected Mr Lecter. However, it did entertain the pie-maker to imagine Will hesitantly skirting around the bed, trying not to awaken his bed-mate with any sudden movement, and he got up without any further delay, greeting the barber with a friendly "good morning".

"Good morning," replied Will, pouring out another mug of tea and handing it to his friend, who was now getting himself seated across from Will. Then, gesturing towards the enormous heap of paperwork that was consuming the table, he said,

"I don't suppose you need any help with this?"

Hannibal smiled, but his eyes remained passive.

"No, thank you. It seems like a lot but there is honestly not very much money being moved around in this business."

At this, his smile widened a bit more, as an invitation for Will to join in his self-deprecating humour.

Will did not smile back.

"If you want me to help in another way, you know, I could-"

"Thank you, Will," Hannibal's voice cut in. "But that is not necessary."

Feeling rather like he had over-stepped his boundaries, the barber took a hasty sip of tea, only spilling a few drops down his chin.

"Although," the pie-maker continued. "I was considering taking a break from the Pie Hole, perhaps for a weekend. It might do you good to alter your surroundings for a few days."

"Uh, sure, if that's something you would want to do..."

"Where would you want to go?" asked Hannibal.

"Are you sure? I mean-"

"Will, next time I ask a question, it would be refreshing if you'd answer it."

His ears tinged pink, Will actually considered the options.

"Maybe somewhere where we could go fishing..." he suggested, hesitantly in case his house-mate disapproved of the idea.

"Well, Southend-On-Sea is only two hours away by train," Hannibal remarked.

"Oh, no, please not there!" Will interjected.

The pie-maker cocked his head to one side in curiosity at the outburst.

"It's just that Abigail had wanted to go there and we never went and..." he faltered uselessly.

"You would feel guilty if you went there without her," Hannibal finished.

"Yes."

But this was not entirely true. Will did not think he would have felt guilty per se, just disappointed. Southend-On-Sea had become a fantasy, perfect place for him to imagine that Abigail was at, enjoying the sunshine and the colourful huts. Nothing could ever live up to that image.

"I do have an aunt who actually lives in Buckinghamshire and I don't suppose she would mind us staying in her house by Black Lake this weekend."

It seemed particularly strange that Hannibal had not mentioned this earlier, as this sounded like the more convenient option and Will was almost reluctant to agree, in case there was some sort of conflict between the pie-maker and his aunt that had caused this to be the less obvious choice. However, he really didn't feel like he was in any position to disagree with the pie-maker and, who knew, maybe a change would actually do him some good.

Or at least temporarily stop him from crawling into bed with a potential murderer every other night.

~O~

Whoever Bedelia du Maurier had been expecting when she answered the doorbell in her petite bungalow in Buckinhamshire that Friday night, it was certainly not dearest Mr Lecter, holding a wicker basket that surely contained a delicious not-yet-cooked pie, and a bespectacled curly-haired stranger, who was clutching a peeling briefcase in front of him as though he was expecting someone to try to stab him through the chest at any moment.

"Well," she drawled, trying not to let any shock or confusion portray on her face. "What a pleasant surprise."

"Apologies for the intrusion, Bedelia," Hannibal said. "I can assure you that our presence is the result of a sudden desire for a break and not any emergency."

"It's wonderful that you came," the retired blonde woman said stiffly, holding the door open for the two men. "I wasn't doing anything this weekend anyway. Now would you please put that pie in the oven before I regret letting you in."

~O~

The inside of the house was remarkably elegant, all warm colour schemes and all surfaces clean. Although small, the house had a certain character, as though it had seen a great deal of history occur between its walls and Will almost felt culturally inferior. To a bloody building.

"So, are you related to Hannibal on his mother's or his father's side?" asked Will, trying to acquaint himself with this intimidating woman who was setting the table with what appeared to be antique silver cutlery.

She and Hannibal both gave out a laugh, hers high and exposed, his low and guttural.

"We're not related," she replied, with a genuine smile that in any other context would have made Will feel more comfortable about the situation.

This piece of information actually came as quite a surprise to the barber, not because Hannibal had described her as his aunt, but because the two were so alike in their mannerisms and facial expressions that it was difficult to imagine they weren't related. And, also, there was the whole thing where they seemed to sort of hate each other's presence and sort of love each other's personality that usually only happened between family members.

Perhaps Bedelia was compartmentalising, separating what she liked about Hannibal from their obvious tension, creating two different mentalities. Will wondered if he was doing the same.

At this realisation, he started to notice things in Bedelia's otherwise collected demeanour: a quickening in her blinking when Hannibal was talking, a pursing of her lips after she spoke, not dissimilar to someone locking the door behind her after making herself vulnerable to the outside.

And, suddenly, his entire relationship with Hannibal Lecter became that much more complicated.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk season 2 to me, baby.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our favourite boys go fishing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me, giving y'all another chapter so soon.  
> I really hope you enjoy this one...  
> Do comment and tell me all your thoughts!

 

 

 

"Have you ever been fishing before?" Will asked, sitting himself down on the picnic blanket laid out on the grassy bank.

It being early February and rather meteorologically dismal, Will and Hannibal were the only two people at the lake as far as they could see through the soft morning mist. The moss that clung wetly to the trees gave the air a filtered, clean smell, very different from smoggy London.

"When I was very young," Hannibal replied, seating himself next to the barber on the blanket and following Will's example of securing a bread punch onto his hook and dangling his line in the water. "But I was more interested in feeding the swans than feeding myself."

"I haven't been since I was around," Will leant his head back in thought, "twenty-five or so, when I moved to London. I am surprised you don't come here all the time to fish; it's beautiful."

Hannibal blinked slowly.

"Bedelia only moved here fairly recently with her retirement and I have not had much opportunity to visit her," he explained, adjusting his line. "It's refreshing that you have given me an excuse to impose upon her, instead of me having to make one up myself."

"Oh, I never meant, wait-"

Hannibal laughed and the gesture felt much less conservative now that the two men were alone. Will supposed that this was the most intimate moment he'd had with the pie-maker, including the night that they had shared in bed.

It was a strange feeling, knowing so little about someone and yet feeling so much.

~O~

"Will!" Hannibal's voice cut across the barber's thoughts in a harsh, urgent whisper. "I think I've caught something."

Sure enough, his line was twitching furiously and Will noted with interest how much excitement could be portrayed through such little movement in someone's facial expression.

"Well," the barber said, amused. "Reel her in, then."

~O~

It was around five o'clock that they decided to call it quits, preferring to get back to the cottage before it was too dark. Hannibal had caught a freshwater bream and Will had caught two rudd which he had tossed back in and they were both feeling very satisfied with the productivity of their day.

"I am sorry you didn't get your beach holiday," Will said, as he was rolling up his fishing line to pack away.

"This is your holiday, Will, not mine," Hannibal replied. "And, anyway, it would have been too cold to swim."

"We could still go swimming here," Will said, not entirely sure whether he was being sarcastic.

"We could," said Hannibal, in a tone making it equally ambiguous to Will whether he was being sarcastic.

There was really only one way to find out.

Will Graham was never usually a spontaneous man. When he used to live with Abigail, he would always have to be the responsible one in the relationship and, although they had their share of thrilling impulses to have pancakes for dinner and pretend that they had Welsh accents for a day, it was always difficult for him to completely let go of his anxieties in an act of pure stupidity. However, seeing Hannibal begin to relax and being, he observed, the only person Hannibal ever really talked to gave him the motivation he needed to strip down to his drawers and wade out into the Black Lake in fifty degree weather.

It was bloody freezing.

"Will!" Hannibal called out, his expression torn between shocked and entertained. "What are you doing?"

"Swimming!" Will exclaimed back, now up to his hips in deathly cold water. "Come and join me. We can pretend it's a beach holiday."

Abigail had always loved their pretending games.

"You are going to catch pneumonia," Hannibal warned. "I do not intend to pay for your hospital bills."

"The longer you procrastinate, the longer I'm going to stay here."

A pause.

"Then I shall concede, but only for the sake of your physical wellbeing."

Will wondered how someone could make taking off their trousers look formal.

It was when Hannibal was wading out towards Will, his expression not even flickering as he entered the icy water, that suddenly his eyes widened and he stumbled, causing Will to immediately splash over to help the pie-maker from slipping, Will's top-half becoming extremely wet in the process.

"Are you alright?" asked Will, through chattering teeth, only to be met by a triumphant chuckle from Hannibal.

"You bastard!" the barber exclaimed. "You did that on purpose!"

And then, Will, because he didn't want Hannibal to win the game of surprising the other with uncharacteristic spontaneity, leaned over and met the pie-maker's lips with his own.

Which was probably taking the game a little too far.

Drawing back, his heart absolutely racing with what seemed to be a painful cocktail of frostbite and anxiety, he tried to stammer out an apology, which only really came out as shaky laughter, until he felt a surprisingly dry hand steady his shoulder and lead him back to the bank.

Way to fucking blow it, Graham.

"Would you like to use the picnic blanket to dry yourself off?" Hannibal asked, when they were both on the grass, his voice as calm as ever.

Goddamnit he is just going to ignore it he is just going to close up again and never talk to you apart from formalities because like it or not he is still a goddamn gentleman what is wrong with you Graham did you really have to add that to your list of mental problems-

"Will?"

"Sure, yes, please, thank you," he garbled, taking the blanket, almost glad for the cold extinguishing the typical signs of embarrassment in his cheeks.

"I have to confess," Hannibal said, seemingly unaffected by the cold. "I wish I produced the same confounding effect on the ladies."

Will laughed a shivery broken laugh because he had no idea how he should be reacting in this utterly ridiculous situation, which then gave Hannibal the opportunity to return the surprise by kissing him back mid-chuckle.

And whether this was part of the "game" or whether it was an actual gesture of love didn't actually matter to Will. And whether he thought the pie-maker was a good person and not a probable murderer didn't matter either.

Whatever happened afterwards, in that moment, Will had to admit that he honestly and truly loved Hannibal Lecter.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have even said that, after the kiss, Will got...  
> Cold feet.  
> Ba-dum-tish!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal and Will come back from their lovely holiday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M ALIVE!  
> I am so sorry for not updating in like a million years.  
> I don't even have an excuse this time.  
> Please, take this chapter as my apology and I will try to write the next one a bit more quickly.

 

 

In the remainder of the weekend that followed, kissing just became a normal exchange that the two men would have several times a day. Will was not even entirely sure whether he should even call it "kissing" if there was absolutely no romantic intent behind it. It was just a gesture that they made to each other that neither really spoke about or commented on the unusualness of.

Will was quite sure that whatever it was was pretty illegal though, which just made it even more special. It was something secret and forbidden that only he and Hannibal had.

He was also quite sure that Bedelia knew something was different about the two men when they arrived at the cottage completely soaked and shivering, Hannibal clutching a bream like a child bringing home a lesson that it had completed particularly well in school. But, it seemed in her nature to keep her own thoughts to herself and he didn't particularly worry about her telling anyone.

It was a great deal harder on the train back to London to engage in their "exchange" as there were often people walking by the compartment door. This only made it more fun.

Will much preferred this game to any others he'd played before.

However, when they finally arrived, bags and all, back to the Pie Hole, he was absolutely shattered and simply gave Hannibal a quick peck on the cheek before lugging his bag up the stairs, feeling like he had brought back a great deal more weight than he had packed.

A shadow passed across the curtain on his door.

There was someone in his room.

For a blood-chilling second, Will thought it was Abigail but, upon actually opening the worryingly unlocked door, he found a shorter woman turning around and hastily stuffing something into her corset at the sound of the opened door.

She was a very pretty woman, with an aggressive stance and half of her vivacious red curls carelessly shoved into a messy bun, which seemed only to exist out of practicality and not any sense of decency. Her clothes indicated some sort of job as a barmaid and Will had absolutely no idea why she would be found in his room and how she had even got in without the key.

"Who are you?" he demanded, forgoing any etiquette he would usually show for a lady. This woman did not seem to be much of a lady anyway.

"Miss Lounds," she replied, an impetuous flair in the way she presented the name. "From 'The Blackfriar Teller'."

"The newspaper?" Will vaguely recalled seeing a paperboy running around the station, shouting obnoxiously exaggerated headlines while waving around a paper of that name.

"That's right," she replied with a grin, chuffed that he recognised the brand. "I'm the editor."

"Any reason you have broken into my room?" he asked, trying to sound as threatening as possible.

"Any reason you haven't rushed to call the peelers yet?" she retorted.

It was then that Will realised how Miss Lounds managed to become the editor of an entire newspaper, albeit a very trashy one.

Feeling rather trapped, he decided to go on the offensive.

"What's in your bodice?"

" _Excuse me?_ I-"

"You know what I mean. What are you hiding?"

"What will you give me if I tell you?" she asked, coquettishly.

"I'll let you go without calling the peelers."

Lounds considered this for a moment, before shamelessly reaching into the side of her corset and pulling out a small, expensively bound notebook and handing it to the barber. He flicked through it, noticing scribed interviews of various individuals as well as sketches of several buildings, until he found a page entitled "The Demon Barber of Fleet Street". His stomach clenched at the sight of Abigail's name within the messy scrawls and the few notes on his release from prison. Scanning the rest, he noticed with a small tinge of relief that there was nothing on Abel Gideon's disappearance, but he quickly ripped out the page just in case.

"Get out."

The editor immediately turned around to leave, but she took her time doing so, infuriating Will with her inflated sense of power. He watched her stop momentarily on the platform that still held a visible trace of Abigail's life being spilled out on it and, then, finally, carry on.

He waited until she was entirely down the stairs before rushing over to the chamber pot to be violently sick.

~O~

"Will?"

From his rather uncomfortable position huddled in the corner of his room, clutching the chamber pot in his arms, he replied,

"Hannibal? Please don't come in, just-"

But the door was already open, the pie-maker standing right in its empty frame.

"What happened?"

Will gaped slightly, choking over his own stuttering failure at speech.

"Come downstairs," Hannibal ordered. "And you can tell me over a cup of tea."

~O~

Will had no idea what Lithuanians put in their tea, but it sure was good at settling his queasiness and calming his mind.

"Feeling better?" the pie-maker asked, an enigmatic expression on his face that Will chose to believe was sympathy.

"Yes, thank you," Will replied, leaning further back into his window seat, the cold glass pressing reassuringly against his back.

"So what-"

"Did I ever tell you how I actually got released from prison?" Will interrupted, looking at Hannibal seriously through the brim of his spectacles.

The pie-maker shook his head without breaking his eye contact with the barber.

"I got an ear in the mail."

He noticed that Hannibal politely averted his gaze, whether in disgust or embarrassment Will did not know.

"I hate to ask, but whose ear was it?"

"Abigail's."

He could feel his voice cracking and wheedling away into a whimper but he did not have the energy or shame to try to stop it.

"Apparently the Ripper has a habit of sending his victims' relatives 'late condolence gifts'."

_He would have burned the card that came with it, if they had let him. Although in some ways it had been a very tasteful card, it had made Will rather feel like punching a wall._

_What kind of psychopath sent a_ Christmas card _with an amputated ear?_

"Did they not notice the missing ear when they first found the body?" Hannibal asked, still not quite looking at Will.

"They did."

Hannibal looked up quietly, waiting for the end of that sentence.

"They thought..."

Will was choking on his words again.

"They thought that..."

It tasted like bile and blood in his mouth.

"They thought I ate it."

...

Hannibal did try so very hard to look surprised.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact!  
> I planned this chapter before the whole Season 2 Ear Thing happened.  
> So I probably have psychic powers, which means that next season Will and Hannibal are almost definitely going to run away and become murder husbands in the south of France.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murder Husbands phase 2: complete.  
> WARNING: SOME VIOLENCE AND HOMOPHOBIA IN THIS CHAPTER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Look, kids, I made a shitty, not-to-scale floor plan of what I think Will and Hannibal's building looks like](http://hotdadwillgraham.tumblr.com/post/85851959141/the-floor-plan-of-hannibal-and-wills-building-in)

 

 

 

Dr Frederick Chilton was not prepared to make a habit of coming into this area, especially not in the busy evenings, not because he was worried about being attacked, oh no, but if anyone saw him in such a low-class neighbourhood it would have destroyed the noble persona that he had been nurturing for years.

However, when, a few weeks earlier, he had received the closest shave of his life, he had made the decision to return to the little barber shop on Fleet Street, despite the risks of being mocked. Unfortunately, as he had not called in advance or asked anybody when the shop's opening hours were, it seemed that he arrived when nobody was expecting customers.

At least, he thought that the barber and his perceived mentor were not expecting anyone because it would have been extremely shocking if they had wanted their... _perversion_ openly acknowledged by anyone going up the stairs and entering the shop.

The two men pulled apart swiftly and the mentor, seemingly unfazed, gave a curt nod to the stunned Chilton, before leaving the room and descending the stairs.

The barber, on the other hand, looked mortified, but desperate to keep calm and pretend that nothing had just happened.

"Good evening, sir," he stammered, gesturing to the barber's chair. "I hope you weren't kept waiting."

"Not at all," drawled Chilton, his proverbial mind turning over this new, highly provocative piece of information, trying to discover an angle that would work to his advantage.

It was not entirely that Chilton was very upset or disturbed by the idea of two fully grown men kissing, although he did feel a small twitch of revulsion towards the man now. He merely felt that it was his duty as a citizen and as a respectable psychiatrist to help this poor, sick man from himself and from the obviously damaging relationship he had formed with his mentor.

It would certainly be easier to keep his barber at the institute than have to travel all the way to Blackfriars for a shave.

But he might as well wait until after this one, since he had come all this way anyway.

~O~

Although the barber, Graham he now remembered, was obviously distressed from being caught in the midst of such a horrifyingly illegal activity, with his mentor no less, his skills had not been blunted at all and Chilton felt extraordinarily pleased when he looked into the mirror, both at his smooth chin and at his plan.

Getting up slowly from his seat, he thanked the barber and then said,

"by the way, you may have heard of me as a psychiatrist in a mental facility in North London. Frederick Chilton? Ring any bells?"

Graham shook his head, his eyes widening with growing fear and comprehension.

"We take good care of our patients there and use new-fangled electric machines that have shown promising results so far," he continued. "And-"

"I'm sorry, but why are you telling me this?"

Chilton bit his lip before speaking.

"I think you would benefit from our care."

Graham's eyes darkened.

"It would not be a permanent solution!" Chilton exclaimed hurriedly. "But, in my professional opinion, a short stay at the hospital will release you from the bad influences of our current lifestyle and will help you get better."

Graham had stopped trembling by now and his features had become utterly glassy and unreadable to Chilton.

"Think about it, will you?" he asked. "I will send a carriage for you tomorrow morning."

Then, as the psychiatrist was reaching for the door handle in order to leave, he felt his wrist meet a forceful grip preventing him from moving.

"Excuse me?" he asked indignantly, but his voice was losing power as the gravity of his situation was becoming apparent. "I would like to-"

"It's very rude to leave without paying for services used, Dr Chilton," Graham spat, his consonants more pronounced in anger.

Chilton sighed in relief, more out of pretense than any actual feeling.

"Of course," he said. "I'll just get my-"

And then it wasn't Graham's words interrupting him, but a razor blade slicing his neck and a spray of blood as consciousness left him in darkness.

~O~

Hannibal was slicing carrots for a stew when he saw Will enter the Pie Hole, heaving his large and apparently extremely heavy travelling bag through the empty dining area and into the kitchen behind him.

He had never let Will into his kitchen before and vaguely entertained the idea of showing him where the icebox was kept, before discarding the thought and continuing preparing the stew.

When the barber re-entered the Pie Hole a few minutes later minus travelling bag, he looked absolutely exhausted and as if he would have liked nothing better than to have just collapsed and slept right there on the floor of the restaurant.

However, instead, he leant over and kissed Hannibal like it was the most natural thing to do.

His lips tasted like blood and, through the kiss, the pie-maker smiled.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for killing Chilton but it had to happen. 
> 
>  
> 
> [IF ANYONE FEELS LIKE COLLABORATING WITH ME ON A ZELLGRAM / BROOKLYN NINE NINE CROSSOVER PLEASE HIT ME UP ON MY TUMBLR.](http://hotdadwillgraham.tumblr.com/)


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renovation Realities - the hannigram edition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone even still read this fic anymore? You guys have been very quiet for the last two chapters...

 

 

 

 

"Aren't you going to ask me why?"

It was late- Hannibal was calculating the day's earnings in his room by candlelight while Will clattered around the stove, making tea and trying to look busier than he was.

"I assume you had your reasons," the pie-maker replied, not even looking up from his paperwork.

"You're not curious as to what those reasons were?" Will asked, incredulous and almost disappointed at Hannibal's lack of inquiry.

"I trust you, Will," Hannibal said seriously. "Do you trust me to trust you?"

Will faltered for a moment.

"Are you asking me if I trust myself?"

"No, and I think we've already established that," Hannibal replied, putting down his pencil.

Will snorted and crossed his arms defensively, leaning against the counter.

"I think..." he said slowly. "I think that I trust you to trust me. I think that you will trust me into the maw of madness and beyond. However, I don't know if I can trust myself to trust that you won't lead me there yourself."

Hannibal smiled, almost imperceptibly, before continuing his calculations. There sure had been a lot more customers that evening than usual.

~O~

Will woke up a lot later than he had meant to the next morning to a brisk knock on his door. With an awful clench in his stomach at the brightness of the day, he ripped off his blanket and shouted, "give me a moment, please!" at his visitor, before hurriedly trying to find some clothes.

"Don't worry, Will, not a customer," said the familiar, accented voice on the other side of the door.

"I still feel compelled to cover myself," replied Will, tripping over his trouser legs in his haste, not wanting his friend to be kept waiting.

"I merely wanted to let you know that a man is coming to perform some repairs to the building in about an hour," Hannibal said.

"Repairs?" asked Will, finally opening the door to his friend, his tie only slightly askew.

"Nothing major," Hannibal informed him lightly, refastening the abysmal excuse for a tie and causing a minor blush to creep up Will's neck. "Just a few things I have been putting off until I found the money."

That caused Will's blush to deepen and something that might have once felt like guilt itch at the base of his spine.

"Come down for breakfast when you're ready," the pie-maker invited, pressing a tender kiss to the barber's forehead, before heading gracefully back down the creaky stairs.

~O~

There were around thirty people in the Pie Hole when Will came down the stairs and the entire scene seemed loud and unusual. Sure there had been almost fifty last night, but Will had tried his best to stay away from the action by offering to help in the kitchen, while Hannibal served the pies. However, it seemed that his help had been superfluous to the management of the shop, as Hannibal now whirled around the room effortlessly, sliding pies onto people's plates and balancing his trays expertly on his spindle-like fingertips.

"Mr Lecter, how on earth do you find any profit, selling such excellent pies for practically nothing?" cooed one woman, as she handed over a few coins. "Meat is usually so expensive nowadays."

"I have a very close relationship with my butcher," Hannibal replied, his eyes glinting with a charm Will had not seen before.

It suited him- the shop, the food, the graciousness he offered his guests. Not customers, _guests._ Will almost felt disappointed that this would all be gone as soon as his latest package of meat ran out.

"Will," Hannibal greeted, smiling toothlessly and genuinely. "I hope you don't mind staying down here while Mr Brown makes his adjustments."

Will shook his head, feeling rather like he was playing to the audience watching him, instead of having a normal conversation.

"Oh, he's a dear, isn't he?" he heard an older woman cluck to her husband.

Looking up at Hannibal, who was still grinning broadly, Will had a sudden realisation.

This was all part of the act. On humble little Fleet Street, the customers were not wealthy or noble- most of them had probably not even left the city in their lives. It was part of the novelty of having a fancy European man in their neighbourhood, one who cooked affordable pies and had an eccentric but ultimately sweet relationship with the nervous barber who lived with him.

It was all a spectacle: _he_ was a spectacle.

"Of course not," Will replied, sitting himself next to the older woman, since they were so busy there was not a free table at which to sit.

"I'm Will," he said to the woman, in case that hadn't already been exceptionally clear.

"Phyllis," she replied, shaking his hand and giving a little laugh at the peculiar formality not often seen around Blackfriars. "And this is Jack."

If "socialising" was a necessary ingredient in keeping the pies cooking, so be it.

~O~

"Hannibal!"

"Yes, Will?" the pie-maker said, putting down the plate he had been drying.

"There's a _hole_ in my floor!"

"Do you like it?" Hannibal asked, looking up at the ceiling of the kitchen, which was now embellished with a two feet by two feet square hole that gave him a view of a very confused Will, who was looking down from his place in his room upstairs.

"You said he was making repairs," Will accused.

"Repairs to the previous design," Hannibal replied airily. "Please don't argue semantics with me, Will."

Trying a different tactic, the barber asked,

"why did you ever think I would want a hole in my floor?"

"Easy access to the kitchen. Much warmer and more private."

"Access? You'll need to get me a ladder for that."

"Mr Brown is bringing one by tomorrow. I have everything organised," Hannibal said, sounding a little too proud of himself.

"It's a bit dangerous," Will continued. "What if my customers don't see it and fall in?"

Hannibal looked up at Will and smiled.

"That's not funny!"

"I do apologise," Hannibal replied, in a tone that was anything but apologetic. "Mr Brown also said he was going to attach something so that it could open and close when you like."

"So... a trapdoor."

"Yes," the pie-maker replied, pleased.

After a moment of silence while Will considered this new arrangement, Hannibal asked again,

"do you like it?"

Will hesitated.

"Thank you," he said instead and walked away from the hole and onto his bed.

He could still hear Hannibal humming as he dried the plates.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone who is wondering, yes, Jack and Phyllis are still black and, no, I do not give a shit about anyone's racist ideas about "historical accuracy".


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will becomes a fully-fledged murder husband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, if you want me to update more often, you might want to consider either signal boosting or applying to this fannibal beta network I am setting up with a friend~~
> 
>  
> 
> [here is the link to the tumblr post!!](http://www.hotdadwillgraham.tumblr.com/post/90091276356/did-you-just-beta-me-a-beta-community-and)
> 
>  
> 
> If any of you are writers, you should definitely consider getting involved!!!

 

 

 

 

The second time Will Graham ever killed a person and third time he thought he'd killed someone, although maybe the fourth, if the brief moments when he was losing his mind in prison and considering that he had killed his daughter counted, was on a dreary unremarkable afternoon in early March.

It was not dark or misty and there was certainly nothing Gothic about the way a man, presumably in his twenties, accosted Will roughly in an alley as he was walking back alone from the supplies shop.

The man had a beastly nature about him, as though he had been living rough on the streets and had lost all sense of decency and humanity. Will could not even find it in himself to be scared as the man demanded his coin purse at knife point.

With a jaded sigh, he unlatched his carrier bag and rifled through its contents, before taking out a small leather case, which he generously opened for the man, who grabbed at it eagerly, giving Will ample opportunity to select his largest blade from the open barber's case and slice the inside of his robber's elbow.

All in one movement, Will kicked the shocked man to the ground, grabbed the knife from the his slack grip and held the struggling creature to the pavement with the heel of his foot on his chest.

Will hadn't been in a fight since early in his prison days, when he hadn't yet figured out how to stay out of trouble, and the familiar feeling of overpowering an attacker was exhilarating.

Leaning down in an almost languorous fashion, Will crouched quietly over the man, revelling in his panic, before slicing his neck, watching the blood spray like a balletic curve around the deserted alleyway.

It was over much too soon.

He had done what he had to do to survive. Many would call him brave for fighting off a street criminal as he did, protecting the area from more thefts in the future. This was not murder, but an act of self-defence.

That was what he would tell the peelers.

He glanced around the street, trying to remember the nearest police station was, until he realised he was only three streets away from the Pie Hole.

If he handed over the body to the police, it would stay in Scotland Yard for maybe a day, long enough to rot, before being tossed aside into some funeral home, where the meat would be needlessly buried into the ground.

Meat was really bloody expensive these days.

There was no way he was going to be able to carry an entire grown man through three streets without being seen.

Maybe just a leg then...

~O~

Hannibal was wondering why it was taking Will so long to return, not worried per se, as he was sure the barber could hold his own, but rather _curious._

When Will walked calmly through the door at eight o'clock, three hours later than expected, at the peak business hour, when there were two tables occupied, Hannibal couldn't help but feel slightly frustrated at his friend's rudeness.

"Will! Can we please speak for a minute?"

He gave a gracious smile to his guests, before leading Will into the kitchen.

"Will-" he began, closing the door, before he was rudely interrupted by the sight of a leg being placed crudely on his worktable.

"What is that?" Hannibal asked, repressing the excitement from his voice.

"I got mugged unsuccessfully on the way home," Will replied. There was nothing wrong with being practical about this.

"Where was this?"

"Three streets south," Will replied, his fingers tapping the wooden work table, making quiet muffled thuds sound in the small kitchen.

"So close..." Hannibal mused out loud.

Then,

"anyone could have seen you, Will. What were you thinking?"

Will looked up and stopped drumming his fingers.

"Give me some credit, Hannibal," he replied, almost hurt by the pie-maker's reprimanding tone. "No one saw me and I hid the body well."

"Where did you hide it?" asked Hannibal, slightly too quickly.

"What, are you going to go out and find it so you can hide it better?" Will replied, scathingly.

Hannibal's eyes narrowed and Will suddenly understood.

"Oh God, no, you're just upset I didn't kill anyone _here_ where you could see it and control it."

"Will, please, my walls are not soundproof."

"You're doing it again. Trying to control me, trying to stop me from realising I know so much more about you than you ever thought anyone could. I know you, Hannibal. I know that you see yourself above the mass of so-called 'normal people'. I know you think that you are an artist and you have definitely killed before I arrived but you wanted to wait for me to reach the same conclusions you did when you started. You wanted me to feel like I had a choice. I know that you have a lot more money stored away somewhere than you'd like to show me and this whole 'I don't have enough money to buy real meat' gimmick is an act.

"I know you, Hannibal Lecter. I may not know all of your dimensions but you cannot think you can control me."

Hannibal's soft half-smile was the only warning he gave before launching himself against Will, pinning the barber to the wall and kissing him as roughly and as passionately as he had ever deemed possible.

When they had pulled apart, hair dishevelled and Will's bottom lip bleeding and swollen, Hannibal looked straight into the barber's triumphantly watering eyes and whispered,

"I could never control you, remarkable boy."

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm on summer holiday (FINALLY) as my gcses are finished and so updates should??? come more regularly????  
> the robber was randall tier by the way, if i hadn't made it more obvious


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Certain things about Will's health are found out.
> 
> (I don't want to give anything away, but if you are triggered by illness and death and such, please be careful while reading this chapter)

 

 

 

It was only when Will looked away, grinning with the same fervent innocence of a child, that Hannibal could collect himself for long enough to smell it.

Hannibal had been nine years old when he had first discovered his unique gift of smell. A teacher at his boarding school had been abusing the boys with a sour temper and had been yelling pejoratively at the quiet Lecter boy for a false completion of his lessons, when the boy had spoken, as he not often had done, to inform the teacher simply that he would die within the year.

The 'prophecy', so named by the older, more gossipy students, came into fruition seven months after it had been set, causing the entire school to fear the sullen boy for his curse.

Unbeknownst to the rest of the school, a bitter-smelling tumour had been taking hostage of the man's stomach for over a year, slowly poisoning his organs until the invasion was successful and both the tumour and the man had been buried together.

However, this was an entirely different smell. It was more of a fragrance than anything, a fevered sweetness. It caused Hannibal's heart to sink with dread as the same time as it swelled with pride at the man before him, so full of potential and chaos.

"What's wrong?" Will asked, and he was still grinning with that ridiculously happy expression that Hannibal simply had to let himself return, despite the cold clench in his chest.

"You are so very beautiful," Hannibal replied, solemnly, limiting himself to only blinking twice more than usual.

"Excuse me if I don't see that as something particularly wrong," Will said, cocking his head coquettishly.

"I shall have to see to the guests," Hannibal said abruptly, turning around to pick up the leg and put it in the icebox. "Would you stay the night with me when I've closed shop?"

Will's cheeks flushed but his expression was otherwise unperturbed.

"I don't think that's quite appropriate," he said slowly. "It's not normal for two grown men to be doing this."

"Dear Will," Hannibal said, taking out a tray of pies from the main oven and opening the kitchen door with a slender hip. "You deserve so much more than 'normal'."

~O~

"I love you," Will said, and the words spun like maple seeds across the pie-maker's vision, fragile but full of life. He had his arms and legs wrapped around Hannibal, clinging to him tightly, which was only partly because the bed was so narrow. His body was radiating a manic heat and had Will been anyone else, Hannibal would have deemed himself uncomfortable. Now, he revelled in the pulsing fever that was now seeping through his skin and he relished every wave of heat carried by each heartbeat.

"I love _you_ ," Hannibal replied, still considering the consequences even as he began to speak again.

"Will, I must tell you something-"

"And you've only waited until now to tell me?" Will asked jokingly.

"Will-"

"Please tell me you haven't got a wife back in Lithuania," Will continued, delicately coughing between each laugh.

"You're dying, Will."

There was a pause, during which Hannibal could almost swear he could feel the fever ebb.

"What?" the barber whispered.

"I'm so sorry, Will," Hannibal said. "I noticed your fever a few weeks ago, but I thought nothing of it until I could smell the sickness in your brain."

"You're sure?"

"My sister had the same ailment," Hannibal said, his voice getting steadily lower and quieter.

"How long do I have left?" Will asked, his voice shaky, still wrapped around his lover.

"Anywhere between one and four years," the pie-maker replied. "After my sister passed away, I read as much as I could about the disease, to try to understand why God would want to take someone so young. There is no cure."

"Well, I suppose this is something neither of us can control."

"There are tonics you could swallow to control the symptoms," Hannibal offered. "I believe you can buy them in Camden, although they are notoriously expensive."

"It's not like I'm going to be spending my money on anything else," Will grimaced.

Hannibal frowned in a passively critical manner, disapproving of Will's blasé approach to his own imminent death, before saying,

"I can, of course, pay for all medicines-"

"No."

"Will?"

"No, no, no," the barber said, rubbing his face. "I won't let you."

There was an admirable determination behind Will's pride, one that the pie-maker was unable to ignore. It really was a dreadful pity.

"It's not fair," Will whispered, detaching himself from Hannibal and sitting upright in their tiny bed.

"Very few things are."

"I lost five years of my life and now I'm about to lose God knows how many more, oh fuck-"

It was rather beautiful to watch Will utterly devastated, frustration simply overwhelming him and causing his thin body to shudder.

"Are you sure, Hannibal? Are you quite, _quite_ sure?"

"I'm so sorry."

Will leant back against the wall, his chest heaving, staring resolutely into space, as if he was considering something very serious. Then, with an almost peaceful expression, he said,

"I've got nothing to lose."

"What do you mean?" Hannibal asked slowly, but Will did not elaborate and only started laughing hysterically, still refusing to look at his lover beside him.

"I've got nothing to lose! Nothing!"

Hannibal was silent, but a small cock of his head told the barber that he was pleased.

"Do you believe there's a god?" Will asked, suddenly very solemn.

"Do you want me to?"

"No. It'll make what I'm going to do a lot easier."

"And what is it you're going to do?"

Will turned and looked directly at Hannibal with a fierce gleam in his eyes.

"I'm going to make this pie shop bloody famous."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really really really sorry.
> 
> But, on the bright side, Will has truly mastered the art of cannibal puns!
> 
>  
> 
> [ALSO, I'm doing a tumblr fic giveaway, which you should all totally enter!](http://hotdadwillgraham.tumblr.com/post/93626360576/because-i-absolutely-love-you-all-so)


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, folks! It's the end. This was supposed to be two chapters but I thought it made better sense as one.  
> I just want to thank _everyone_ who has read, bookmarked, kudoed, commented on or subscribed to this fic- you guys are my motivation and I honestly love you all so so much.  
>  Okay, that's my bit- please enjoy!

 

 

 

 

 

It would start when Will was at the Saturday market, following Hannibal's extremely detailed and rather aesthetically intricate shopping list to the syllable, lest he faced the pie-maker's disapproving pursed lips. As was the norm at a busy market in London, there was bound to be a few trouble-makers: shop-lifters, pick-pocketers and the miscellaneous but common rude bastard. Once Will selected his target, he would make sure to bump into them, just hard enough to have to apologise with an offer for a free shave.

It was quite thrilling to perform surrounded by an audience of over a hundred people at the market.

Slitting the victim's throat was the most satisfying part of the process- feeling the arterial spray splash across Will's face, refreshing his mind and soaking him with the feeling of being alive.

Mr Brown's trapdoor served Will very well as he hoisted the barber's chair to the side and tossed the body down into the kitchen like a pig's carcass. He wasn't entirely sure what went down in the kitchen, but whatever it was raked in the customers, who were elated by the consistent low prices and high-quality pies.

This was the system they had made and they were proud.

Will was still sick, and growing sicker. The tonics they bought from Camden were soothing his fever and keeping him focussed, but he was still haunted by Abigail, although she was placated and passive as she watched Will and Hannibal serve up the ruffians of Temple with a demure smile.

Killing was sedation for the soul and Will slept like a dead man.

~O~

It was a Monday afternoon, when Will came back to the Pie Hole from the market to an unlocked door and a note wherein Hannibal offered to go out and replenish Will's supply of medicine if the barber would be so generous as to perform a thorough cleaning of the restaurant in his absence. Although the note looked as ridiculously stylish as every last shopping list of the pie-maker, it seemed very suspicious that the door had been left unlocked and Will's eyes widened at the likely prospect of an intruder.

Arming himself with a rolling pin that was lying on the working table, he slowly opened the kitchen door.

There! Rifling through the icebox, was-

"Miss Lounds?"

He'd recognise that birds nest of curly red hair anywhere.

The reporter spun around, her expression panicking at the rolling pin Will was holding.

"Mr Graham!" she exclaimed, her little mouth round with fear.

"I know you're scared," the barber said, quietly moving towards her. "You only have to be scared a moment longer."

There was a splash of sound as Lounds launched herself at the door, dodging Will from the side and sprinting around the tables and equipment, but she underestimated the barber's reflexes and was ignorant of Abigail's ghost guarding the door with an excited grin and was easily forced to the floor and tied to a pipe on the wall with kitchen twine.

Standing up and breathing heavily, Will considered the situation carefully.

His razors of preference were lying upstairs in his room and, although he could very easily finish the job with one of Hannibal's cooking knives, it would be displeasingly messy and thoroughly dissatisfying. Furthermore, the pie-maker would be returning shortly and Will's fever-ridden mind flared with the prospect of having an audience to his kill.

"Where is he?"

The barber looked down at the woman fidgeting uncomfortably against her restraints, glaring up at her captor with defiant terror.

"The pie-maker, when is he coming back?"

"Soon."

It was best not to engage and allow oneself to be manipulated.

"Then we have to talk quickly," she said urgently.

Will remained silent.

"Mr Graham, you have to listen to me," she pleaded. "What do you actually know about Lecter?"

Will huffed, but Abigail betrayed him and seated herself next to the reporter on the floor, her bright blue eyes blinking with interest.

"He's a monster, Mr Graham. He's not like you. He's not like anyone on this earth."

"You don't know what you're talking about," the barber scoffed irritably.

"Search my bodice."

"I beg your pardon?"

Lounds rolled her eyes.

"There's no need to be coy, Mr Graham. It's the safest place on my person for evidence."

Will wrinkled his nose.

"Oh for God's sake, you're going to find it anyway when I'm dead and you're stripping me down for meat. You might as well do it when I'm still alive to help you fit the pieces together."

Will wasn't sure whether to be more impressed by Lounds' grasp on the situation or scared for how much she knew before she broke into the Pie Hole.

After glancing worriedly back at the door, with stiff fingers, he slid his hand between the woman's breasts, quickly pinched the object in question, and brought it back up. Out of all the chores he had yet to do that day, he could very certainly say that rummaging his hand around a woman's corset as she sat tied to a kitchen pipe was not on the list.

"Well?" demanded Lounds, pointing with her chin at the slim, cylindrical object, which Will discovered to be a rather gristly human finger. Unperturbed, although he did hear Abigail pretending to gag, he placed the "evidence" on a piece of grease paper on the worktable.

"Well?" he replied.

"For a cook and a killer as sophisticated as your dear Mr Lecter, you don't suppose it's slightly suspicious that he would..." she trailed off, her gaze suddenly focussed on something behind Will.

"That I would what?" Hannibal asked, removing his gloves and entering the kitchen with a calculating expression.

"It's just very obviously human and very incriminating," Freddie finished, and Will, if anything, had to admire her gusto. "It seems like an unnecessary risk for someone so meticulous."

Hannibal was not saying anything to deny her allegations or defend himself and instead was standing thoughtfully next to Abigail, who was looking at Will expectantly.

"Since you already know what Hannibal and I do," Will said, slowly and forcefully. "I don't think your evidence gives rise to any new conclusions."

He looked up at Hannibal, waiting to see if he was going to make the first move.

"Mr Graham!" Freddie said, her voice shaky but still loud and grating as ever. "I don't suppose you get many female clients to your barber's shop, do you?"

Will closed his eyes briefly in frustration.

"No."

"Maybe you should make some new conclusions about why I found a lady's finger in Mr Lecter's icebox."

Will slowly turned his head back to the digit that was secreting some sort of god-awful fluid onto the grease paper and confirmed with a small swell of panic that it had indeed belonged to a woman.

"Hannibal?" he asked, still staring at the finger. "Where did you get this from?"

No reply.

"Hannibal, I won't be angry," he said, but his trembling voice was already starting to betray him.

Who else in London keeps small body parts of their victims so he can send them off as anniversary gifts to their families?

Oh God, no.

Anyone but him.

Anything but this.

"I can see you now," Will whispered, finally making eye contact with Lecter.

"You're the Chesapeake Ripper."

Hannibal didn't even need to reply. Just one glimmer of interest causing the slightest flex in his features and Will knew he was right.

"You killed Abigail," he said, ashamed to feel tears burning the corners of his eyes like acid.

As if responding to her name, he saw his dead daughter appear next to Hannibal, like they were lining up for some perverse family portrait. It struck Will how horribly domestic it was, fathers and daughter together in the kitchen.

"You killed Abigail!" he said again, as if hoping that repeating it he would start to understand it better, to truly comprehend the fact that the person who had saved his life was the very same who ended his daughter's years ago.

"Will," Hannibal said imploringly, stepping towards Will.

"No!" the barber screamed, stumbling backwards. "You killed her! You- you don't get to touch me."

"Will, you're sick," the pie-maker said with a concerned expression.

"Not as sick as you," Will retorted.

"Will-" Hannibal began.

"Shut up! Stop- stop talking. No, don't come any closer, just don't-"

He was getting hysterical now, his voice getting higher and his throat getting tighter and the furnace felt so much hotter than before and Abigail was still standing next to Hannibal like there was nothing wrong with him, like he hadn't bled her to death on that wooden platform, like they were supposed to pretend like Hannibal wasn't a monster and that she wasn't dead and that Will wasn't crazy and-

"Will, we do not have much time," Hannibal said, his voice low and urgent.

"I- I don't-"

"We need to get rid of the reporter and leave before anyone finds us, which would be fairly soon. Do you understand me?"

"I'm not going anywhere with you," Will spat.

"Will, you're ill. You need to rest. Lounds is a shrewd woman and I assume that she has made preparations for the possibility of her absence. I have resources to live comfortably for the next few years. We can get out of London and start a new life."

"I don't want a new life," the barber whispered. "I want Abigail's."

"I know," Hannibal said and, God, did he sound genuine. "I wish there was a way for me to undo what I did and to bring her back. But we have to think practically now- the police are probably already on their way."

"Where would we go?" the barber asked bitterly. "It's not like I have very much longer anyway."

Hannibal smiled gently.

"To the sea, Will. To the sea."

And in that fever-scorched moment, Will could see a warm English sun, a cute little beach house with its own porch and miles and miles of clean, white sand where Hannibal and he could walk, free from company and free from this smoggy, blood-stained town.

It was terrible and disturbed and unrealistic beyond words and Will wanted it so desperately he could hardly breathe.

Suddenly, behind him, he heard a small scraping sound and both he and Hannibal whipped around to see Lounds, untied and crawling slowly towards the door.

Hannibal did not spare a moment to leap over the table and grab the reporter, as Will ran to the furnace to open the heavy steel door. With an instant understanding and a simultaneous movement, Miss Lounds was trapped in the fiery container, her screams muffled as the door swung shut, pushed by the three of them, together.

And as he turned guiltlessly away from the burning woman, Will was struck by the cruel irony that Abigail would have gotten along so well with Hannibal had their circumstances been slightly different.

~O~

Southend-On-Sea is always a bit colder than one might expect on a sunny May day because of the Western wind that washes the warmth away each night. Most of the beach houses are in a state of disrepair, forgotten second or third-homes of people who can barely afford the mortgage on their first, and it requires a great deal of paint and determination to make one presentable. None of them have porches. The sand is tinged grey from bonfire ash and the area becomes over-crowded with small children and old pensioners when July comes around.

However, in the early evenings of May, when most of the residents are either in their city-homes or inside for dinner, it is likely that one can see a solitary family of three silhouettes eating cucumber sandwiches together on the beach and staring serenely out to sea.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that this ending was satisfactory and do let me know what you think!  
> I'm going to be working a little bit on my zellgram and chillywilly fics for a while but there are plans for a potential Pushing Daisies hannigram crossover in the future???

**Author's Note:**

> [Come bug me on tumblr!](http://www.hotdadwillgraham.tumblr.com)


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